


No One's Gonna Love You

by starlore



Category: Bleach
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bleeding, Dubious Consent, During Canon, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlore/pseuds/starlore
Summary: They've been friends forever, but friendship is subjective. Introspection on Keigo and Mizuiro's not so healthy relationship. Dubcon sex involved.





	No One's Gonna Love You

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I don't actually ship these two as anything other than as an abusive, unhealthy friendship/relationship. They're horrible for each other. But I guess I enjoy torturing Keigo, so here you go.

For as long as Keigo had known Mizuiro, he was a closed off, selfish person. There were times, when they were alone, where flashes of genuine emotion slipped through the cracks of the mask he wore, and Keigo cherished each one as it graced him. They could be as casual and carefree together in public as anyone else, depending on Mizuiro's mood, but Keigo knew at his heart that it was carefully orchestrated, faked for the purpose of appearing normal. As they grew older, Mizuiro tired of the game, grew bored of posturing and pretending that he could actually be happy as everyone thought he was. Keigo knew, he sensed it as quickly as a bloodhound, but he refused to bay at the moon. He kept it close to the chest, wouldn't let a soul know of the turmoil Mizuiro created for himself, simply because he refused to _exist_.

It had gotten better before it had gotten worse. Keigo felt like he was going through a loop in reverse at times; days could pass before Mizuiro would so much as say hello to him, regardless of how often they might have taken the train together or passed each other in the hallways. It was different when Ichigo was around, not traipsing around with the Shinigami who had come to rely on him as their sword and shield. Mizuiro and Keigo couldn't be _too_ distant with each other, so they'd pass off the banter back and forth as smoothly as a practiced recital, performing for an audience who had long since grown tired of the plot. Then Mizuiro would head off to his class, and Ichigo and Keigo to theirs. 

Keigo knew that Mizuiro was bitter.

In that time where Ichigo had lost his ability to sense the spiritual realm, Keigo had been there more often than not. He was a distraction, something Ichigo could relate to more than ever now that he lacked the perception of the realm beyond their own. And Keigo's own spiritual awareness was nothing if not a boon for the both of them. Keigo could differentiate reiatsu with ease, could pinpoint where everyone might have been and how well they were fairing against the various Hollows that still populated the streets in droves. Ichigo could rest easy, so long as Keigo informed him of how well Ishida was fighting or how strong Chad had become or how resourceful Orihime truly was. 

Mizuiro's awareness, while impressive, couldn't compete. Keigo excelled in an area he could not, and with ease. Ichigo was drawn to him, had grown so much closer to Keigo than he ever had been before, and Mizuiro felt slighted, despite his lack of effort to remedy that disparity between them.

Fact of the matter was that Mizuiro _couldn't_ remedy it, even if he tried. Ichigo and Keigo had bonded and should he try to sever that strengthened bond, he would only come out of if as a bitter, jealous snake. And while Mizuiro was shrewd enough to manipulate those around him to believing the contrary, he simply could not bring himself to manipulate Ichigo in that manner. 

So, instead, he took that frustration out on Keigo. It wasn't easy; Mizuiro had to do so in small increments, when they were alone. It wasn't until Ichigo regained his powers did Mizuiro snap his jaws around Keigo's throat. Ichigo wasn't around to wedge between them.

The times between girlfriends were the worst. Mizuiro was without sexual and physical stimulus and emotional gratification and validation. Without someone to praise his every trait and hang upon his every word, Keigo was the fallback. And it was a role Keigo was all too readily available to fill. 

Keigo only did so because he knew of no other alternative. He couldn't get Mizuiro to open up to him like he had to Ichigo, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Keigo just fit so easily into Mizuiro's other habits that the idea of treating him on equal footing as Ichigo was an odd consideration. So, instead, Keigo was there only to fill the void neither a woman nor Ichigo could fill. 

Sometime after Shunsui had delivered the arduous news to them about Ichigo's supposed risk of being trapped in Soul Society, Keigo had grown aggressive, irritable. Mizuiro could have lent an ear, could have assured him that Ichigo would be fine, but he didn't. He found it gratifying to see Keigo in such distress; it served him right, didn't it? Mizuiro had been in such a terrible state of mind ever since long before Aizen tread foot in Karakura, it was only fair that Keigo have his heart wrenched into a vise, his chest heavy with the weight of worry and fear.

At that time, they had no reason to avoid each other. It became a competition for Mizuiro, a sense of duty for Keigo. How long would Keigo be able to stand being around Mizuiro? How long would Mizuiro allow Keigo in his presence? 

Longer than either really anticipated, was the answer.

\--

Keigo was used to many things Mizuiro had a tendency to say or do, but most difficult of all to accept was the times when he fell into a particular variety of boredom. It wasn't as rare as Keigo hoped it to be, but as of late, it was alarmingly frequent. Keigo often asked, typically in a bitter or jealous tone, of how Mizuiro's girlfriend(s) had been, and Mizuiro would either give a snide response or fix Keigo with a look. Keigo could deal with the arrogance, it was the look that always had his stomach sinking. 

That look wasn't one of sadness or anger or really much of anything. It was a blank slate, as if someone had pressed a reset button in Mizuiro's brain. A flicker of clarity in that void before Mizuiro's hand would press against the inside of Keigo's thigh.

Every time, Keigo would jump. Every time, Keigo would rear back against the couch. Every time, Keigo would stammer and yell and carry on--"Wh-wh-why are you touching me like that?!"--and every time, they both knew the answer behind it. 

Mizuiro was of slight build, smaller than Keigo in every way, but somehow so much stronger. Keigo couldn't pinpoint why he allowed him to straddle his lap, or why he felt so powerless to stop his advances. He didn't _want_ Mizuiro to kiss him with a hollow passion and a clipped hum stuck to his tongue. But Mizuiro took from him what he wanted. His hands pawed at his groin like a ravenous lech, but were still somehow composed and poised enough to have _Keigo_ feeling like the pervert between them. Each shameful response Keigo had made colored his face a red to match the tawdry draping that Mizuiro's mother had drunkenly hung along the expansive windows in the living room where they sat. And somehow, Mizuiro could still pull back, swiping a flash of pink across his teeth and lips, and be the one to regard Keigo with scorn and disgust.

"You're breathing so heavily. It's disgusting," he would say, voice clipped and cold. 

"Shut up. Get off of me," Keigo would respond with a dulled and shameful ire, hands clasped at Mizuiro's waist. He could shove him off, he could practically throw him, but he wouldn't. 

And Mizuiro would laugh cruelly, the only sound in the entire house aside from the buzzing of the television set between channels and the telltale _zip_ of Keigo's fly coming undone. 

Keigo could have thought of a thousand reasons as to why he allowed this to continue, but none ever truly illustrated the depth he wanted to convey. He didn't want it, and yet he let it continue. Mizuiro didn't want it, either, and yet he initiated it. They had one thing in common anymore and it was a deep longing for companionship. This was a paltry replacement for the ideal, but neither could find it in them to stop.

Mizuiro's fingers and tongue, Keigo's teeth and voice. They worked in tandem, unraveling each other, despite the length of slack already pooled around their feet. There wouldn't be anything left to give by the time Mizuiro settled in Keigo's lap, burying Keigo's shameful arousal deep into his core. 

"Disgusting. Filthy. You're--" Mizuiro would pant as he raised his hips and pushed down again, over and over. He was rough, unrelenting.

"...Slow down, you're gonna' hurt yourself," Keigo would murmur, an eerie understanding and concern laced in his voice, thick and heavy and muddled. His hands would trail up Mizuiro's sides, steadying him, trying to soothe the rage that bubbled in his veins.

"Shut up," the sound of skin slapping against skin would echo in the room, thighs against thighs and Mizuiro's palm across Keigo's cheek, "I know what I'm doing better than you do. This is all you're ever going to get, you know that, right?" 

" _Nngh_ \--" The sharp sting of his palm pulled a strangled groan, and Keigo had to turn his head to the side to avoid the look he knew he would be getting. And as predicted, Mizuiro's eyes widened with a vicious glee and he laughed, rolling his hips with increasing fervor.

"Ahaha--! That's right, you're pathetic like that, aren't you? This is where it ends and begins; with _me_."

The successive, unrelenting pace Mizuiro set would always come with consequences, just as with most things in his life. In the process of trying to bury his loneliness through the reach of Keigo's shameful arousal, he would consistently bring his body to the brink of its limits. Small and petite as he was, his body couldn't support the truly ferocious urges he wished to inflict upon others. And Keigo would always be the first to notice.

"You're--"

"I'm what? Tell me, Asano, tell me how angry you are with me. Tell me how much you hate me. Tell me--"

"--I think you're bleeding."

Mizuiro would slow down, regard Keigo with an empty, hollow gaze. Reset, reboot, restart.

"Ah," _clickclickclickclick_. Fingertips would slip between them, stained that gaudy red Mother had picked, just for him. _Your favorite color, isn't it?_

"I am, aren't I?"


End file.
